ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.
Easily strung out, Cecelia Catton fled to Seattle on an
arrogant whim, chasing the scene by its ever-expanding tail. Forcing herself out from under the thumb of a failed marriage and stifling environment, the twen...
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❝𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑪𝑨𝑵 𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑴𝒀 𝑺𝑲𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑹𝒀 𝑺𝑬𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑺 𝑰𝑵. ❞
COYOTE (seattle, 1990 ) The measured ticking of a clock slowly roused Celia from her comatose sleepiness. Tick-tick, it whispered with a maddening precision, worsening the thump-thump of her headache.
Morning light irradiated the room with a murky, white glow. And as usual, the sun was unrelenting in its brightness; unceremoniously forcing Celia to pry her bluer than robin's eggs eyes apart - as Cass used to call them—until she closed them again.
Her mind was in no mood to cooperate and her eyes begged for darkness. She shifted, burrowing her face into the rough fabric beneath her, trying to reclaim the last vestiges of slumber.
But why was she suddenly so uncomfortable?
A sharp crick deep in the muscles of her neck spasmed, successfully yanking her into consciousness. Groaning, she reached up to soothe it reflexively, only to feel the tactile abrasion of leather against her fingertips.
Awakeness rushed through her like a train coming into its station. Celia shot up with a gasp, her eyes opening in an unrefined panic. Something akin to nausea paralysed her as she slapped her hand roughly over her mouth - creating a not-so-dignified 'pop' sound as she did so.
A scratchy, yellow blanket that had been draped over her - a pretty thing with sunflowers on it - slipped off of her and onto the carpet as she unfurled her cat-like position into a seated one.
Her brain was still reeling from the sudden onslaught of consciousness, but one thing was becoming abundantly clear: she was still in her clothes from last night. Boots included.
Her eyes darted around the room, her head pounding as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.
Where was she? Wait was this Krist's living room?-
Her ears heard it before her mind could rationalise it. The sloppy screech of a spoon scraping against the ceramic underbelly of a bowl. Her eyes followed the noise and landed on Krist—towering at what seemed like ten feet tall.
He was standing in his kitchen, eating a bowl of Cheerios, shovelling spoonfuls into his mouth with the grace of a slobbery toddler. Milk dripped from the spoon in graceless galumphs, and Krist seemed to be enjoying every minute of Celia's burgeoning consciousness.
His mouth was turned up into a shit-eating grin as his eyes scrutinised her.
Celia grimaced inwardly with embarrassment.
Of course, she thought pessimistically.
"Morning sunshine,"he said between crunches, smiling far too cheerfully for someone who'd clearly been awake for all of twenty minutes. He was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a Winnie the Pooh pyjama set, the sight of which was somehow more disorienting than her headache.
